Cold.
That was all Clayborne could think of. Straining, he opened his hazel eyes and searched his surroundings. It was dark; He couldn't see. Forcefully, Clay tried to prop himself up. His left hand pushed on the cracked tiles beneath him. However, nothing came from his right. Keeping calm he slowly moved his left hand to his right. He sighed as he felt his right arm, relieved it was still there. He rolled over. Pushing himself up again. The ceiling met his head before he was even on his feet. Another sigh came from his mouth "Of fucking course".Â
The cold grew closer.
Dragging himself forward was all he could do. It was harder with only his left arm seeming to work. But he wasn't going to wait for a someone to rescue him. Especially not in this part of town. Each time he pulled shards of glass and rubble tore his stomach. Clay didn't notice at all. He didn't feel anything. He finally pulled himself free from the destruction.
Lying down Clay began to check his body. He looked down. His stomach covered in gashes and holes. His left leg was pouring out blood. His right was bending in ways he didn't believe possible. Bones piercing skin. Foot facing him. And finally his right arm. It was gone. All that was a gushing fountain of blood. "Well fuck" he laughed out. "How pointless"
The Cold took himÂ